


Pen of Strength, Write Your Fury

by AnotherWorld3111



Series: Angels and Demons Verse [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Assassin Dean Winchester, BAMF Dean Winchester, Flashbacks, Gen, Military Background, Military Backstory, Past Torture, Torture, Tortured Dean Winchester, War-hardened Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherWorld3111/pseuds/AnotherWorld3111
Summary: Dean remembers when someone important in his life taught him some pretty crucial stuff.The fact that Dean later killed said person is pretty inconsequential.





	Pen of Strength, Write Your Fury

**Author's Note:**

> *knows there's no way I can write a multichapter during school* *opts to finish during break* it works  
*knows there's no way I can write a multichapter during school* *doesn't even have any idea where the story is taking me* *needs to get the damn ideas out though* *doesn't want an incomplete document or worse, a wip lowkey left abandoned on ao3 tho* "I know! I'll just make it into a series!"  
smh I sometimes feel absolutely idiotic with myself  
not beta'ed all mistakes are my own etc etc sorry not sorry  
unless Grammarly built into safari counts

_ When the cold water hits his face, it wasn’t just cold. No, there must’ve still been actual chunks of solid ice in the bucket that hadn’t fully melted yet, because it was as jarringly effective as the water of similar temperature to rouse a previously unconscious Dean. _

_ “Now, now, Dean! It’s not bedtime yet when we still have so many lessons left to cover!” An annoyingly nasally voice said. _

_ Dean’s nostrils unwittingly flared as he tried not to inhale any water. Instead, he viciously spat out the water that had managed to get into his mouth. Although his eyes may not have opened yet, the threat of liquid blinding him keeping them closed, Dean still knew without a doubt that water wasn’t the only thing he’d just spat out. _

_ “It’s never bedtime with you,” Dean muttered quietly, unable to help himself. The sound of polished boots tapping on the floor in front of him came to a halt. _

_ “What was that?” Alastair sounded genuinely curious as if Dean’s backtalk hadn’t already signed him up for more trouble than he was already in. _

_ “I said,” Dean said pointedly, finally opening his eyes. He looked up, bravely – and stupidly – meeting the commander’s gaze head-on. “All work and no play’s gonna make for no efficient drill sergeant if you ask me.” Bold, despite what his current situation had actually promised Dean. _

_ Strung up to the ceiling with merciless ropes long having since torn away the skin at his wrists, Dean wasn’t entirely sure why he was goading Alastair into promoting his punishment into a death sentence, at this rate. _

_ Ah, well. It was never like he was the smartest tool in the shed. _

_ Or so others around him seemed to have a tendency to assume. Wrongly, if Dean ever had the urge to boast. Which he really didn’t. Especially not right now, when circumstances more than begged for otherwise. _

_ “You should be more careful, Dean,” Alastair said with narrowed eyes. “The tongue…” He flicked his wrist, something gleamed, and then suddenly, there was a blade in Alastair’s hands. “Is a gift… but a fickle one it can be.” He walked towards Dean, not stopping until they were practically nose to nose. “You need to care for it in a very…” he thoughtfully paused as he dragged the edge of the blade against Dean’s bottom lip. _

_ Dean fought hard not to move. _

_ “Particular way.” Alastair finished. “Even more so considering it’s what landed you here in the first place.” He raised his eyebrows at Dean, looking unimpressed if it weren’t for the manic gleam visible in his eyes. Oh, how Dean wished he could just claw those eyes out with his bare hands himself… _

_ Internally taking a deep breath, Dean forced a smirk, even though he was looking as far down as he could without moving his head. It was a lot harder than he’d wished, trying to keep an eye on the blade digging in just a little harder on his already split lip. “You’re rather being all bark and no bite today, commander,” he observed. Jesus, he really did need to shut up. But what could he say, back talking was his defense mechanism, even if everyone at this point – Dean included – would’ve expected better from him. “Let’s face it – you just like it too much to finally have some intelligent conversation. That, or I’m your favorite,” Dean cheekily winked. “Either way, you wouldn’t dare.” He pressed. _

_ Alastair’s eyes sharpened. For a heart-stopping second, they neither moved nor spoke. Tense silence filled the air, emphasized only more so by Dean’s lack of ability to breathe at that moment. _

_ Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed too far… _

_ And then Alastair was swiftly stepping back and away from Dean. He tried to avoid bringing too much attention to his heaving chest when Dean finally took in some much-needed air, despite his ribs protesting the action, made stiffer in an attempt to be covert. _

_ “Do you know the significance of this kind of blade, Dean?” Alastair raised the blade in question, purposefully tilting it this way and that until it caught the measly light illuminating the room. Dungeon was far too grand of a word for a dirt hut like this, where Dean was being held for the duration of his ‘punishment.’ _

_ Dean eyed the blade that’d been pressed to his mouth only moments ago. “Not really, no. But I’m sure you’ll be more than happy to educate me.” He intoned. _

_ Alastair, for his part, didn’t even respond to that at first, still too entranced with turning the blade just right so that the reflected light was dancing across the room. More specifically, right into Dean’s eyes, forcing him to squint even further. _

_ “Humor me, Dean. If you had to make a guess, what can you tell me about this beauty right here?” Alastair said, still not looking at Dean. _

_ Dean sighed but responded dutifully – for once. “It looks like a damn pen?” He hazarded, dully. Okay, so maybe not the complete respect Alastair would’ve expected – as if Alastair was expecting any respect from him in the first place. Besides. Dean would only give people the respect they deserve, and all that bullshit. _

_ And anyway, why exactly did it matter so much that he knew about the blade when it was only going to be used to torture him – soon, if Dean could afford to wager? But, whatever, because clearly, Alastair was just dying to monologue a bit before getting to the action. Too bad he wasn’t literally dying. But Dean appeased himself. Soon… Eventually, the fucker would regret every single second spent with Dean. _

_ Soon. _

_ “Yes, it does look like a pen, hm?” Alastair said, bringing Dean out of his thoughts. “Unusual, how different it is to my preferred weapon. But I’ll be honest, Dean. That does work better for creating havoc in terms of long-range. I’m sure you would still remember it clearly.” It wasn’t a question, nor did it have to be. Dean barely refrained from emitting a full-body shiver at the memory of what was basically a metal whip – or maybe even a flogger would be a better description. Whatever it could be described as there was still no way Dean could forget his hands-on lesson of the ‘urumi’ from only a week prior. Especially not when he was nowhere near healing from it too. _

_ At least, he was pretty sure it was a week. Maybe. Probably. It was a little hard, keeping track of the days down here, admittedly. _

_ “The thing about this lady here is – and you were correct! Made and even called the ballpoint pen knife, I find it beyond perfect to channel through some of my more… artistic preferences. And with a canvas as beautiful as your flesh…” Alastair audibly swallowed, hunger evident in his eyes as he finally looked at Dean again. _

_ Dean was abruptly happier when the lunatic wasn’t looking at him, he decided. _

_ “It would be blasphemous for me not to take advantage.” _

_ Dean swallowed. “Never took you for the religious type, commander,” Dean said, but there was no longer masking the fear evident in his tone. _

_ Alastair only drew closer and pressed the tip of the knife to Dean’s pec. “Lesson number one,” he said in a whisper, leaning in right beside Dean’s ear. “Always make sure the grip on your choice of blade is just right, but for this one, you’re going to want to hold it just so,” their eyes were pinned to where the blade started to dig into flesh. Dean bit back a hiss at the sting. “So you don’t cut yourself when executing such a delicate cut such as this…” _

Dean opened his eyes, bringing himself back from his memories. It may have taken several thousands of stitches to mend what Alastair had done to him, along with several more sessions with a therapist he’d doubt he’d ever actually see. But if he did, the person would likely have a field day should Dean ever choose to reveal that for all the torture poorly masked as ‘punishment’ and whatever other bullshit Alastair had to spew to his superiors – if the man ever had to report to any higher officials, not that Dean ever found out. Interrogating the man in return hadn’t been high on his priority list as much as enacting revenge for all the pain he’d subjected on Dean, the latter only willingly undergoing it all because – Dean would make sure he _ never _forgot his lessons with Alastair.

Not when, he surmised as he drew out a very specific blade from under his sleeve, shifting it in his left hand for not even a full second before it was settled comfortably in his grip, they definitely had some benefit to them.

Drawing closer to the man in front of him, still shrouded in shadows, Dean met Sam’s eyes over the man’s shoulders.

They nodded together, brief, but decisive.

Darting forward, Dean embedded the ballpoint pen knife down the junction between shoulder and neck, merciless.

Over Raphael’s outraged yell of pain, Dean pressed his free hand to the intercom in his right ear, left hand still effortlessly holding the blade in place.

“Now, Cas.”  



End file.
